Happy Hour

The man with the breath like turpentine and the eyes that looked in different directions, kept hovering around Doe and Lamb. He’d stand, leering at their table, and slur. Something a little suggestive. Then he’d wait for a response, and then when he figured out it wouldn’t come, he’d stagger off into one of the bar’s darker corners.

“We should go,” Lamb said.

“He can,” Doe said, and looked over at the bartender, who stopped wiping down the bar to shrug.

The drunk stumbled into the light again. His foot caught something and he fell, landing heavily on his face.

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